Jumping
by PixiePuppet
Summary: AU: Reverse ending to The Reichenbach Fall - Sherlock is actually normal, but his story was made up to be a sensation. Tiny drabble.


He jumped.

He jumped, and didn't look back.

He didn't scream.

He was stoically silent as he fell, wingless, to the pavement below.

Spread-eagle, like a flightless bird, he let gravity plummet him down without trying to stop or lessen the pain at all.

Jumping was...unexpected. There were so many other options. Living, for one, and hiding. Hiding from the hunter, hiding from the world as it tried to squeeze the life out of him.

But it succeeded. He didn't exist anymore. No one would remember him.

Because death, contrary to popular belief, does not immortalize someone. It casts them into nothingness, into oblivion, into the abyss with all the other lost souls who will never grace this earth again.

Death does not discriminate. It does not prefer certain people over others. It does not make bargains. It does not trade a life for a death. Death is inevitable, like a shadow that is everyone's constant companion. There's never been any escape, and there never will be. No one can outrun it, and no one can hide from it.

There is no choice.

So why not die by your own choice?

Jumping was his way of rushing towards Death, arms open, to embrace the darkness that comes with oblivion in a way that most people would consider completely insane. Jumping was taking one final choice in life by choosing how to die, how to make one last mark before being forgotten, before becoming just another headstone, another urn, another file finally closed for good. Jumping was daring and tragic all at once.

But it was not pathetic.

Jumping was extremely brave. It was taking a conscious choice to end it all, right there. It was taking that final step without looking back, without regret.

The silence was deafening as he descended, almost dream-like, down, with no sound. He was able to keep his fear from rising up in the form of a blood-curdling scream or gasp of surprised as he fell, the wind rushing in his ears, and hit the sidewalk with a sickening crack.

The papers would say it was tragic.

The papers would blame mental distress, drug abuse, personal failure; anything but the truth.

No one would say it was inspirational, the way he jumped to embrace Death like a long-lost friend.

That wasn't interesting.

That wasn't sensational.

That was boring and no one wanted to hear boring, age-old stories that attracted no media attention. So they spread lies to keep people wanting more, to keep people coming back for juicier details as the story got more convoluted.

No one wanted to hear about a good guy. They wanted villains and damsels-in-distress and secrets and double agents. They didn't want a kind man who died to early. That was depressing and one-story worthy.

No one thought that looking into his story would be worthwhile, when a really good story was there the whole time.

He jumped because he couldn't stand himself; he'd lied and cheated and made friendships build on nothing more than a facade. He'd been horrible, but had shaped others' lives, for their own good. He had made a man returning from war find purpose, a girl who dreamed of a prince realize that she needed to take some initiative, and a man who thought himself unimportant realize just how much he was valued by others.

That would've been newsworthy.

But no one cared.

This was a small number of people he had affected - why report on them? They led normal, average lives. Doctors and policemen and a landlady were nothing to write home about. They didn't have affairs or dubious legal situations or double identities - they were just everyday citizens who were loved by an ordinary man. They were the people who others could actually connect to, but why tell their story?

No one cared, and no one ever will.

Death isn't remarkable. It happens to a quarter of a million people every day. Telling their stories would be a waste of time. Interesting ones are highlighted. Making one up is even better. His wasn't any more spectacular than someone who jumped halfway across the world, but because someone thought it would be sensational to give him an enemy, they did. They invented a nemesis to fight, a brother with many identities, a crime ring centering on said nemesis, and made up an entire story to relate these parts together. All of a sudden, Sherlock wasn't average. He was a genius who solved crimes committed by Moriarty; a genius who had committed suicide with Sherlock, only to have his body removed by an assistant of his. Sherlock's brother now was a top British government official. Watson had PTSD, Molly was in love with Moriarty, and Lestrade was the only person in Scotland Yard who could stand Sherlock.

All lies.

But lies sold stories, and who didn't love a good old-fashioned fake suicide.


End file.
